


I'll Fight, But Not Surrender

by OrianDCate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Crossing Timelines, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Cthulhu Mythos, Elder Wand (Harry Potter), I hope, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Irish Republicanism, Mandalorian Adoption (Star Wars), Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Single Parents, The Deathly Hallows, The Force Is Replaced By Magic (Star Wars), The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28012773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrianDCate/pseuds/OrianDCate
Summary: Or: The Mandalorian is Irish, Navarro is South Africa, Abraxas Malfoy is the Client, and Harry Potter is the Child. Oh, and Dumbledore is Moff Gideon. Because the Darksaber is just the Star Wars version of the Elder Wand. Takes place just after the First War with Voldemort.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	I'll Fight, But Not Surrender

Disclaimer: The Mandalorians are not, in fact, the Irish of Star Wars. That would be the Corellians. 

* * *

_Author’s Note: Yes, it’s required you read all the lyrics to the song. No, it’s not negotiable. I Have Spoken.  
_

* * *

_“_ _There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Duggan was his name;  
He was born and raised in Ireland in a place called Castlemaine.  
He was his father’s only son, his mother’s pride and joy;  
And dearly did his parents love the wild colonial boy._

_At the early age of sixteen years, he left his native home,  
And to Australia’s sunny shore he was inclined to roam.  
He robbed the rich, he helped the poor, he shot James McAvoy,  
A terror to Australia was the wild colonial boy._

_One morning on the prairie as Jack he rode along  
A listening to the mockingbird a singing a cheerful song,  
Out stepped a band of troopers, Kelly, Davis, and Fitzroy;  
They all set out to capture him, the wild colonial boy._

_“Surrender now Jack Duggan, for you see we’re three to one;  
Surrender in the Queen’s high name for you’re a plundering son.”  
Jack pulled two pistols from his belt and he proudly waved them high;  
“I’ll fight, but not surrender,” said the wild colonial boy._

_He fired a shot at Kelly, which brought him to the ground,  
And turning ‘round to Davis, he received a fatal wound.  
A bullet pierced his proud young heart from the pistol of Fitzroy,  
And that was how they captured him, the wild colonial boy.”_

_\- The Clancy Brothers, “Wild Colonial Boy”_

1) THE IRISH ROVER

The children of Eire had always known of Magic.

It was in their blood; in their bones. In their land, and in their songs. There was once a time where one could hardly go half-a-league without passing the train of some Lord or Lady of the Courts. Fairy rings and circles were scattered across the countryside, and woe betides to any foolish enough to pass through them. The Fae had free reign of the land, and did much as they wished, to wherever or whomever they pleased. And yet it was a peaceful time, for the children of Eire could do much the same.

Until the Strangers came.

The first wizards to come to Eire were led by a man who called himself Patrick; and his legacy was one of fire and brimstone. It was the first time the people of Eire had fully realized the destructive ability of Magic when wielded by one who’s intentions were less than indifferent; the first time they realized the world beyond their island home had no tolerance for the Fae, or for Wild Magic in general. One by one, the Fair Folk began to leave the isle of Eire, retreating to their hidden realms of Tir na Nog and Craugh ah Dun. The children of Eire mourned their going; but what could they do against the wizards? For where the Strangers’ Magic was tamed and powerful, theirs was Wild and uncontrollable. They could not use it to fight; they could only use it to flee.

And so things continued, until one day, a son of Eire by the name of Mandal O’Rian made a discovery: that iron, when properly formed and shaped, could absorb the Strangers’ Magic, and with the appropriate Runes, turn it back against them.

Thus began the first War for the fate of Eire; on the one side, led by the descendants of the original wizards, and on the other, Clan O’Rian, led by their _buir_ Mandal in his suit of _beskar_ iron. The children of Eire fought long and hard for their land; and because they knew their home far better than the Strangers did, they were able to construct a great castle, hidden from all detection, where not only could iron be formed into _beskar,_ but those with the ability could learn the Strangers’ Magic for their own use. And they called this castle the Scoil ar Draiocht.

For Mandal O’Rian was a practical man, and knew that all power should be used, if it could be found. Many of Eire’s children he adopted into his Clan; those who’s families had been lost, or those who had families had lost them. And with each one, the strength of the Clan grew, until it was the greatest to be found in Eire, before or since. And that is why all those who follow in his footsteps are known as Mandalorians.

The Strangers come with fire; when that failed, they tried famine. And yet the children of Eire could not be beaten, and the Scoil ar Draiocht remained hidden. At last, the war grew into an uneasy stalemate, with neither side willing to give an inch to the other. The truce lasted for many a generation, until all the descendants of Mandal had passed, and the children of Eire became divided.

For a war arose in the world beyond; a Magical War. On the one side, the Strangers, supported by the lands they had once conquered; and on the other, a proud warrior people from across the sea, led by a wizard of unfathomable power. And this wizard’s name was Grindelwald.

There were some among Eire’s people who proclaimed that they should join this Grindelwald; that he would be the last blow to the Strangers’ power, and that at last their land would be free. And then again there were some who said that things should continue as they were; that if the truce had held this long, why should it end now? Better far to remain neutral, and let come what may.

And so the debate continued, until the year of 1941.

The leader of those who believed in Grindelwald, a man named Mereel, formed an army of his own to support the foreign wizard. _Haat Mando’ade,_ they were called: the True Mandalorians. And long was the trail of blood they left across Europe, as they did all in their power to make the Strangers pay for what they had done so many centuries ago.

But alas, it was not to last. Grindelwald was slain, and his armies were shattered. The True Mandalorians were wiped out, all except one: the son of Mereel, a boy named Fett. His fate was torture, interrogation, and, when he had given up all he knew, slavery. Thus did the Strangers learn the Secret of Scoil ar Draiocht, and where it lay hidden. And in one night, they laid it to waste.

The _beskar_ was stolen; the castle and all within it burned. And all that the children of Eire knew of Magic was destroyed; with nothing left to remind them of it. Not in their blood; not in their bones; not in their land. Only within their songs was Magic’s sweet call to be found, and that very rarely.

The children of Eire had always known of Magic.

But now, they have forgotten.

* * *

“I can bring you in warm…or I can bring you in cold.”

Actually, that was a rather poor choice of words considering just where it was his target had chosen to run to. The Desolation Islands were cold enough to begin with; at this time of year, it was even worse. There was no warmth here; for his target, or for him.

The French soldiers hadn’t been much of a challenge; they usually weren’t. Keeping things non-lethal had been relatively simple; well, all except for the one that had tried to run. That was unfortunate. Grande Terre’s garrison may have been small, but considering he was here for the scientist that had provided them with quite a lot of stolen information, they would’ve been real motivated to stop him if the alarm had been raised.

Said scientist was now nervously holding out his hands to be cuffed.

“Good call.”

It certainly made things more convenient. And who knows? Maybe the French would be stupid enough to hire him to steal their informant back.

* * *

There was one good thing to be said about Grande Terre: no airport. Which meant no flight plans, and more importantly, no one asking awkward questions. Such as where he’d been able to get…

“The _Razorcrest?_ Huh. I thought the Harrier VTOL’s were all phased out years ago.”

He ignored the target in favor of beginning takeoff procedures. Still, the man was right: they had been. Which was why nobody had minded when he’d liberated the _Razorcrest_ from a deserted Libyan airbase.

Well, deserted after he got through with it.

He flicked the intercom on for the second cockpit; or what had used to be the second cockpit, before he ripped anything a target could use out of it. “You should probably put on your mask; it’s about to get real hard to breathe.”

The target complied, as they usually did. The perfect setup: the oxygen mask was vital once a certain altitude was reached. All one had to do was add a little something extra to the oxygen tank, and any passengers wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon. Not until he made the drop, anyway.

He set the autopilot, and with a sigh, settled in for the long flight to Cape Town.

* * *

“Mando!”

Karga. No one knew just where he’d come from, but everyone could agree on two things: it certainly wasn’t South Africa, and he’d somehow managed to become the best information broker in Cape Town anyways.

“Delivery’s on board the _Razorcrest.”_

Karga smiled. “I’ll send my people to pick it up. The best; that’s what you are, Mando. The best.”

Flattery; that wasn’t good. “The payment?”

Karga’s smile never faltered. “Here you go; the full sum.”

A pile of bank notes was slid forward…

British Pounds.

“No Pounds. Do you have anything else?”

Karga held out his hands in placation. “Hey, Pounds still spend, Mando!”

“Anything. Else.”

“…Fine. I have French francs…” Another pile of currency appeared on the table, “But I can only pay half.”

The francs disappeared into his belt, and the Pounds back into Karga’s.

“What have you got for me?”

“Not much.” Karga pulled out a stack of posters and began flipping them onto the table. “Some poachers, an insurance scammer...”

“Insurance? Out here?”

“Life insurance. For safaris.”

“Ah.” That explained it. “I’ll take them all.”

Karga’s hand grabbed his own. “Whoah, hold up there! I got other hunters to keep busy, you know. At the very least the Quartermains are gonna want the poachers to themselves.”

“One insurance scammer isn’t gonna be enough for jet fuel.”

“I know, I know.” Karga leaned back in his seat with a sigh. “Fine. I can’t give you the poachers…but I can give you something else.”

“Poster?”

Karga shook his head. “No poster. Just a place to meet the client. And a guarantee it’ll be worth your while.”

“…Where?”

* * *

Brits.

He could practically _smell_ the incompetence.

Still, when Karga said something was worth it, he was usually right. Best to go through with it.

The soldiers led him into a room that was vastly different from any other he’d ever seen in this part of town. Lush plants seemed to fill every corner, with a peacock paying more attention to one than was probably healthy. True, everything was a bit run down, but this was Africa. New was practically unheard of out here. The room was still miles better than many he’d stayed in, even on some of the more high-society jobs.

And sitting at a desk in the center sat a man who could only be the Client.

Long, blonde hair. Pimp cane, with come kind of concealed weapon in the handle. So, probably English government then; and a branch that was more concerned with results than morals.

He could work with…

A door to the side flew open, and long-ingrained habits had his Browning in his hand before the intruder even made it through.

Naturally, the soldiers responded by raising their own rifles.

His H&K G3 wasn’t the best for tight spaces, but out it came as well.

The Client held up his hand. “Please, gentlemen. There is no need for violence. If you could just lower your weapons…”

Behind his helmet, his eyes were tracking each and every moment in the room. “Have your men lower theirs first.”

One of the soldiers scoffed. “We have you four to one.”

“I like those odds.”

The Client rose from his seat. “Greef Karga said you were coming. He said you were the best in Africa. This…” he gestured to the intruder, “Is Mr. Yaxley. His enthusiasm can sometimes outweigh his discretion. Please, lower your weapons.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, the soldiers’ rifles came down. His own matched them every inch of the way. “Greef Karga said I was coming?”

“He also said,” the Client stepped closer, “that you were expensive. Very expensive. Please, sit.”

He did so.

“The usual methods, I am afraid, have failed in this particular case. I acknowledge that bounty hunting is a complicated profession, and I am prepared to offer fair compensation for your services. As a token of my good faith…”

_Thunk._

He stared at the ingot.

“Real _beskar_ iron.” The Client continued. “A rare commodity, in this age. I am prepared to offer you…”

A stack of ingots appeared next to the original. “This much _beskar_ in exchange for the termination of the target, and retrieval of the youngest child in its care. However, should this outcome be impossible, termination of the child will also be acceptable.”

Mr. Yaxley started. “What? I thought we agreed…”

“I will remind you, Mr. Yaxley, that I am in charge here.”

Yaxley bowed his head. “Yes; of course.”

The Client turned back to face him. “The target is guilty of severely embezzling from the English government, as well as from the company that employs him. Unfortunately, the funds were diverted into accounts based in Johannesburg, and then cashed out. Meaning that while the target would normally be tried in England, only a South African official could make the arrest. And that door has been…closed to us.”

Ah, diplomacy. The normal methods. Which had, apparently, failed.

“You are to dispose of him and his family quietly; the exact manner, I leave to your discretion.”

“And the child?”

Yaxley interrupted. “Extremely valuable; believed to be the missing son of an English noble. Either a hostage for the target to buy his safety with, or an inconvenience the target is being paid to raise far away from his birthright. Perhaps both. He is _not”,_ here Yaxley glared at the Client, “to be harmed.”

“Well?” The Client asked. “Do you accept?”

He leaned forward…and picked up the _beskar_ ingot. “The poster?”

“No poster. I can offer you a location, and an age. The target can be found in England; Number Four, Privet Drive, Surrey. And he is approximately forty years of age.”

He nodded, and rose to leave.

“ _Beskar_ belongs with a Mandalorian; don’t you agree?”

He paused.

“I deeply regret what was done to your people; but look around you. Can you really say that South Africa is better off without the Ministry running things? Is the world any safer? Ireland should have recognized that fact.”

Maybe.

But history was written by the victors; and it really said a lot that Eire had practically none left.

It had all been forgotten.

All except the Way.


End file.
